


Get A Room, Just Not This One

by chellethewriter



Series: Even Ice Gods Can Melt [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Humor, Illness, Implied Sexual Content, Life in St. Petersburg, M/M, Post-Canon, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sickfic, Yurio's POV, a little angst toward the end but, domestic viktuuri, it's quickly resolved, lots of cursing because yurio has a potty mouth, more like a lot of heavy making out, outside pov, post episode 12, sort-of-sequel but no prior reading is required at all, viktor and yuuri are really cute and yurio can't deal with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 05:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9109417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellethewriter/pseuds/chellethewriter
Summary: Viktor and Yuuri can be in love all they want. Honestly, Yuri doesn’t give a fuck, so long as their romantic bullshit doesn’t interfere with his life. But… for some reason, it’s like Yuri can’t enter a room without being utterly smacked in the face with their cheesy adoration for one another.Sharing a rink and a city with them is a nightmare -- plain and simple.(In other words, five times that Yuri Plisetsky walks in on Yuuri and Viktor being grossly affectionate... and one time that he doesn’t. Takes place in St. Petersburg, post episode 12).





	

**Author's Note:**

> Someone asked for domestic Viktor and Yuuri living in St. Petersburg and I, being trash, fulfilled the request. Enjoy!

The morning in Russia is brisk and clear, with air so dry and frigid that it seems almost sterile. The city of St. Petersburg itself, however, is less so -- utterly thrumming with the sounds of passing cars, some of them sputtering like misfiring rifles. Yuri Plisetsky does his best to drown out the noise as he walks down the sidewalk, headphones shoved deeply into his ears. Every so often he skips a song, discarding it as an option for one of next year’s programs.

He’s shivering slightly, not that he’d ever admit it. Only _losers_ wear thick coats -- like _that_ guy, the random, boring one he just passed in the street. He’s a loser, one that he hopes he’ll never see again, despite not even knowing him. Yuri is _way_ tougher than he is, in his relatively light leopard-print sweatshirt, the hood pushed up over his eyes. He’s _fine_ like this, despite the numbness in his skin. Just fine.

His stomach rumbles, reminding him of his destination. There’s a bakery a few blocks from the Sports Champions Club where he practices under Yakov, one whose food is _passably_ decent, in his opinion. (Okay, actually, it’s quite good… but he’s not about to tell the people who _run it_ that, or anyone he knows -- God forbid he _sees_ _them_ there).

For months, he has suffered through protein shake after protein shake, unsweetened teacup after unsweetened teacup in Lilia’s house, each one tasting bitter, disgusting, and mealy. Before the recent Grand Prix, it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. But enough is enough. _Fuck it_ , Yuri needs _real_ food for breakfast, and there’s quite literally nothing but _shit_ in Lilia’s pantry.

So the bakery became his best option for today. And finally, Yuuri spots it only a few meters away. Despite himself, he cracks a smirk. _Warmth_ , _food_ , fucking finally! Not that he isn’t tough enough to deal with the cold. He is _totally_ tough enough to deal with that.

The door to the bakery opens with a jingle. ( _Yuri fucking hates bells, jesus christ, the woman at the counter could clearly see him walking inside, is a bell really necessary?)_ . Brusquely, he stalks to the counter, hands shoved into his pockets as he falls into line. His body reacts positively to the building’s warmth, as if the heating system has resurrected his frost-bitten limbs. It even _smells_ warm in here, enriched by the heady scent of brewing coffee (not that Yuri even _likes_ coffee that much, okay?).

He orders something relatively basic -- a muffin and a croissant. Plus a juice box because, okay, he needs some nutrients in his diet and there is _nothing_ wrong with juice boxes. _Nothing_.

After silently paying the cashier the amount listed on the cash register, he keeps his head down and finds himself a table as far away from the door as possible. With every time it opens, freezing air gusts in, and Yuri doesn’t care for that shit _at all_. So he settles into his seat and tucks into his croissant, popping his headphones out of his ears so that the wire does not block his mouth.

Unfortunately, the first thing he hears upon removing them is his own name. _Yuri._ Except that it’s _moaned_. Or pretty damn close to a moan, anyway, uttered in a voice that Yuri finds unsettlingly familiar.

Yuri bristles and sets the croissant back on his plate, craning his neck to discover the source of the voice. It takes some effort, peering over the back of his booth like this, given his height. But _fuck_ , Yuri needs to know--

And _shit_ , he was right -- the person at the adjacent, corner table is none other than _Viktor fucking Nikiforov_ , and not alone, it seems. There’s someone underneath him, mostly buried by Viktor’s body.

Yuri has a pretty accurate guess as to who it is. Accurate, because he would never describe that person as “good” in any situation, the pig that he is.

Viktor is practically _draped_ over Yuuri Katsuki, pinning him to the wall adjoining the booth, kissing him -- and not in a chaste way, either. His tongue slips in and out of Yuuri’s mouth repeatedly, and his hand -- Yuri _sure as hell_ isn’t tempted to look, he’d rather die -- but it’s pretty evident that it’s roaming freely underneath Yuuri’s many layers of winter clothing. Yuuri seems to be enjoying it quite a bit, smiling into Viktor’s mouth, a fire hydrant red blush coloring his cheeks.

Yuri wants to puke up the few bites of croissant he managed before being attacked by that _horrific_ sight. Quickly, he looks away, trying to ignore it entirely. But, _fuck_ , it’s practically seared into his closed eyelids. _Fuck--_

He didn’t know Katsuki would be arriving in Russia so soon. And further, he didn’t know that _Viktor_ liked this bakery. If he had, he would have avoided both Viktor and this place like they’re the goddamn _plague,_ that’s for sure.

Yuri fumbles to push his headphones back into his ears, intent on blocking out the sounds that those two… _animals_ … are producing. Squelching, smacking, breathy noises that only remind Yuri of his own distinct need to gag and choke. They’re in _public, fucking hell_ , _what the fuck are they thinking--?_

But as he prepares to blast music into his eardrums, he realizes that his phone is running at low battery. It dies in his hand, leaving him staring at its silent, black screen. Yuri resists the urge to throw it.

Even his phone has abandoned him in this time of crisis.

Fine. _Fine_ . The world doesn’t want Yuri to eat his breakfast in peace, it seems. So fuck the world, he’s setting off to the rink, and he’ll finish his meal there -- away from those assholes. Sure, Mila might be there, ready to taunt him, but that’s _nothing_ compared to this torture.

So Yuri stands and marches toward the door, half a croissant and a full muffin in hand, his unopened juicebox in the crook of his elbow. He hates those two idiots. He hates them so _fucking_ much, they’re making him go back out into the cold already, the bastards, he hates them--

On his way out, he glances at them for the sole purpose of shooting them his most venomous glare from underneath the hood of his sweatshirt.

Viktor has shifted slightly now, a golden ring-adorned hand tangling in Yuuri’s hair. Yuri resists the urge to upchuck -- right then and there, on the clean tile floor-- as Viktor’s lips slide down Yuuri’s neck, and Yuuri giggles -- that’s right… _giggles_ … like he’s a _fucking_ schoolgirl.

On their table, he notices two cups of coffee, steaming heavily. Warm and untouched, they seem. Neither Viktor or Yuuri are be paying attention to them, or to the fifteen-year-old Grand Prix champion glaring at them, they are so engrossed in… ugh, whatever _this_ is.

Yuri won’t let them get away with this. He _won’t_ . Yuri had looked forward to this, to eating his goddamn croissant and drinking his juicebox, and this was his favorite bakery and now it’s ruined _literally forever_ just by their presence--

So he does it. He _chucks_ his muffin at their table as hard as he can. It meets its mark, managing to topple both cups of coffee, spilling their scorching contents all over the men that were _supposed_ to be drinking them, rather than placing their mouths all over each other.

“Ow, ow! Hot! What the--?”

Viktor yanks himself off of Yuuri as he stares at the now-empty, fully spilled coffee cup, his gaze sporadically flickering to his now heavily stained coat. His eyebrows are raised in confusion. Yuuri, meanwhile, is still in a half-daze from Viktor’s kisses as he proceeds to reach for the napkin dispenser, seeking to help his coffee-soaked boyfriend.

Instead, his hand makes contact with Yuri’s muffin, resting on the table like a death threat, drenched in their drinks.

With that, they both seem to realize that someone is staring at them from the door, and their gazes lock with Yuri’s glower.

“Yura?” he hears Viktor call in surprise. “Did you… did you _throw_ that?”

Yuri refuses to answer. The only response he grants them is a deeper glare and a thoroughly disgusted noise. But then he’s out the door and _gone_ , hoping to never see them again. _Ever_.

Unfortunately, as he walks past the bakery, he can just barely spot them in the window, now laughing to themselves in a joint effort to clean up the mess that he caused them.

_Fucking disgusting, honestly._

 

* * *

 

Yuri sincerely, _desperately_ hopes that he’ll never see Yuuri and Viktor like that again. But… considering that they are _living_ in St. Petersburg together now… well, it’s really only a matter of time, unfortunately.

A week, to be exact.

Official practice finishes as expected, and after another twenty minutes of impromptu jump rehearsal, Yuri is quite sore and ready to _go the fuck_ to bed. His tiredness has practically left him stumbling like a zombie, unable to pay attention to his surroundings. All he knows is that it’s late, and that he better grab his belongings from the locker room as soon as possible -- before he passes out on the floor.

Upon entering the locker room, however, he is greeted by a sight that wakes him right up with disgust-induced adrenaline.

Yuuri is peeling off Viktor’s sweat-soaked shirt, carelessly tossing it to the ground with a seductive smile on his face. It seems that, this time, _he_ is the one pinning Viktor to the wall (or in this case, the lockers) standing between Viktor’s legs and pressing their bodies flush together. Viktor, the old geezer that he is, looks like he’s about to have a goddamn _heart attack_ in his visible excitement. He is utterly wide-eyed and _eager_ as Katsuki arches over him, hands sliding up Viktor’s bare chest--

“Why the ever-loving _fuck_ are you two still here??” Yuri practically screeches, frantically shielding his own eyes. He thought everyone else had left by now -- especially these two, the goddamn lovebirds that they are, always sneaking out of practice early. Why _now_ , of all times, did they decide to stay behind and screw each other in the _locker room_ ? Is Yuri’s life one big _cosmic shitshow_?

At the tantrum, Yuuri freezes and snaps his head in Yuri’s direction, mortification in his eyes. _Good_ , Yuri thinks. _You should be mortified, shithead. This place is disgusting, you two are disgusting, and in that case, maybe you deserve this place, holy fucking hell--_

Honestly, though, what _is_ this? Do Yuuri and Viktor think sweat is a turn-on or something, and that’s why they decided to bang in a locker room? Or, wait… no, no, no! Yuri doesn’t want an answer to that, doesn’t even want to _think_ about what turns Yuuri and Viktor on. In fact, Yuri doesn’t want to look at either of them _ever_ again. _Ever_ . He wants to stuff them in one of these lockers and forget the combination. Actually, he wants to stuff them in _separate_ lockers, so that they can’t _still_ annoy him with their apparent need to touch each other at every second of _every fucking day_.

“S-sorry, Yurio,” Yuuri apologizes, scrambling to retrieve Viktor’s shirt from the floor. Viktor, meanwhile, looks like he’s in _agony_ , like he’s _dying_ \-- like he’s a starving man who nearly sank his teeth into a delicious meal, only to have it snatched from him at the last possible second. His eyes are glazed over with desperate _want_ and _yearning_ , directed at Yuuri’s now disinterested form with startling intensity. He hardly cooperates as Yuuri tries to force him back into his shirt.

_Seriously, Viktor?_ Yuri thinks. _Get a goddamn grip._

“That’s not my name, pig! You know that!” Yuri snaps in response to Yuuri’s apology. “And this isn’t your bedroom, for Christ’s sake -- it’s a public space. There are minors around -- minors like _me_ , in fact, who don’t want to see you two being _gross_ every three seconds. So keep your clothes on, keep your flies zipped, and keep your hands to yourselves, or I _swear_ _to fucking God_ …”

Yuri lets the threat trail off since he has nothing with which to threaten them, but he sounds intimidating nonetheless. Viktor and Yuuri are still glued to their spots in astonishment as Yuri opens his own locker, retrieves his duffle bag, and storms out of the room, long blonde hair whipping behind him.

As the door closes, Yuri (unfortunately) hears Viktor beg, “Okay, but as soon as we get home… _Yuuri_ , _please_ , you have to--”

Yuri wants to set his own memories on fire.

 

* * *

 

Yuri knows that Yakov won’t admit it, but the old man is worried. Very worried. Despite his choleric demeanor, he really does care about his skaters -- about their wellness and success. He cares about Viktor, especially. Viktor -- his star pupil -- is probably the closest thing to a son that Yakov can boast. He has mentored Viktor since he was a small child, has guided Viktor’s journey through numerous medals, adulthood (though Viktor isn’t much of an adult, in Yuri’s opinion), and even ( _blegh_ ) love.

Yuri can’t even imagine what it was like for him. Adult Viktor’s melodrama exceeds that of any Hollywood diva, so he figures that his teenaged version must have been utterly _unbearable._ And now that Yakov has to deal with a kissy-faced Viktor and his fiance on a daily basis? _Shit,_ Yuri almost feels _sorry_ for the guy.

In fact, a part of Yuri almost cheered for Yakov’s sake when Viktor failed to attend practice one day. Yuuri strolled in with bags under his eyes, dufflebag slung over his shoulder and walking alone. He seemed very quiet and subdued, which, in Yuri’s view, was a welcome change from his usual love-induced giggling and blushing.

As expected, Yakov demanded to know where Viktor was, and of course, Yuuri was the only one with an answer. He shrunk a little when confronted by the enraged old man that had trained his fiance, Yuri noticed (and smirked a little as a result).

“He is not feeling well today, coach Yakov,” Yuuri managed in Russian, mispronouncing the words only slightly. He had been learning a lot from Viktor over the last few weeks, it seemed.

At first, that was no big deal to anyone. All skaters fall ill at some point, and are usually back on the ice within a day or so. But then a day passed. And then two. And then three. Soon enough, Viktor had been absent from practice for nearly a week, and Yuuri had stopped attending as well. That was enough to worry everyone, including Yakov. Including Yuri, even, though he’d never tell _them_ that.

“D’you think Viktor will be back soon?” he questioned Yakov one morning. “Not that I want him back, or anything. But this suspense is starting to piss me off.”

“Katsuki says that he’s still recovering. Apparently his condition is… well, it’s not very good. But I’m sure he’ll be fine, Yura. Vitya is tough. He always has been.”

There was a twinge of fear in his voice, though. And, _fuck_ , that unsettled Yuri more than he had thought it would.

Yuri’s grandpa had been visiting at the time, and that night, in passing, he mentioned Viktor’s illness around a mouthful of pirozhki.

“He’s probably just being a drama queen, to be honest. Lying in bed and being lazy,” he speculated, though almost halfheartedly. Making fun of Viktor was rather unsatisfying without Viktor actually _there_ to hear his taunts.

“Hmm…” Yuri’s grandpa hummed. “If your friend is so sick, Yuratchka, then we should help him get better. I’ll make him some kuryniy soup. An old family recipe. I find it always helps me.”

Yuri contemplated saying something like, _“No way! Getting better is his problem, not mine.”_ But somehow, he just couldn’t muster the heart to do so.

So now, Yuri Plisetsky finds himself knocking furiously on the door to Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment, a tupperware of chicken soup contained in his free hand. A frustrating amount of time passes before someone actually answers the door, but finally, it swings open, revealing a very tired looking Yuuri Katsuki, clad in sweatpants and a sweatshirt.

“Yurio?” he says, sounding almost surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m not here for you, pig! I’m here for Viktor!” Yuri snaps, pushing his way past Yuuri, into the apartment. Immediately, he notices that it’s a bit of a mess, the kitchen counter covered with tissue boxes, cold compresses, and various over-the-counter medications. Yuuri is clearly too tired to protest his entrance, and simply closes the door behind him with a sigh.

As he turns, Yurio shoves the tupperware of soup into Yuuri’s arms, taking the older skater by surprise.

“Here,” Yuri nearly mutters, placing his now-empty hands in his pockets. “It’s kuryniy soup. My grandpa made it for Viktor.”

For a few moments, Yuuri’s eyes are transfixed to the tupperware in shock, but his stunned frown slowly transforms into a grateful smile. “Thank you, Yurio. I’ll put it on the stove.”

“That’s not my name, pig!” he snaps yet again, for what feels like the _fucking_ seven-hundredth time. But he’s not quite done yet. Soon after, he feels compelled to continue (though in a far softer voice), “Plus...it’s no big deal, really. But Viktor _better_ like it. My grandpa doesn’t make soup for just anyone, you hear?”

“I’m sure he’ll love it.”

Minutes later, the soup is in a pot and heating on the stove, Yuuri stirring its contents intermittently. Yuri watches him for a while, but eventually, he spins around, examining the room for any signs of Viktor’s presence or indicators of his condition. “Where is the old geezer anyway? He’s not faking, is he?”

As if on cue, the sound of hoarse coughing can suddenly be heard, emanating from the bedroom. Between the coughs, Yuri hears his own name, uttered in a painful rasp -- one that freezes his blood. But then he realizes that the voice isn’t calling him. It’s calling _Yuuri_ , who glances over his shoulder toward the bedroom door, worry alight in his eyes.

“Yurio, do you mind…?” Yuuri requests, relinquishing the spoon to Yuri so that he can attend to the voice’s source.

Surprising himself, Yuri accepts it without objection as Yuuri departs for the bedroom, shutting the door tightly behind himself. Yuri is thus left cooking the soup on his own. The coughing persists from inside, now accompanied by the soft, muffled sound of Yuuri’s voice.   

The soup finishes heating soon after that. Refusing to let it burn or grow cold, he locates a bowl in the cabinet and fills it accordingly. But _dammit,_ Yuuri and Viktor are still shut within the bedroom, and show no signs of exiting so that Viktor can try the dish. Surely Yuuri must know that the soup was nearly done when he left?

Whatever. Yuri sure as _hell_ isn’t going to let the soup go to waste, not when his grandpa put so much effort into making it. So, with the soup bowl in hand, he storms his way toward the bedroom door and, finding it unlocked, aggressively throws it open.

When he enters, Yuri stalls, somewhat shaken by the sight before him. Viktor is clearly quite unwell, his face coated in sweat, eyes glassy as he lies prone on the bed, whole body shivering slightly. Makkachin rests beside him, the poodle’s face buried in Viktor’s side. And Yuuri, meanwhile, is leaning over his fiance, a thumb stroking Viktor’s cheek, his lips pressed to Viktor’s brow in a tenderly comforting gesture.

A _nauseatingly_ comforting gesture, Yuri means. _Tender…_ _god_ , who even uses that word? Certainly not Yuri. _Never_ Yuri, fuck that.

“You… you better be taking his temperature or something!” Yuri stammers, already preparing to exit the room.

But then Viktor’s gaze falls on him. “Yura!” he rasps, but brightly, like he is just _so excited_ to see Yuri visiting him like this, and that manages to halt his departure. “You came!”

Yuuri sits up and runs a hand through Viktor’s silvery hair, pushing his bangs out of his damp face. There’s so much adoration for Viktor on in his eyes -- _too much_ adoration.  Enough adoration to make Yuri want to _barf_.

“That’s right, Vitenka. Yuri brought you some soup.”

And now he’s using pet names too? _Dammit…_ this is truly too much for Yuri to handle. He needs to get out of here as quickly as possible, before they start doing something truly intolerable. (Who is he kidding? _Everything_ they do is intolerable).

“I love soup!” Viktor beams hoarsely, his excitement far too passionate for any normal person. “I love soup, and I love Yuuri, and I love Makkachin, and skating, and being friends with Yura--”

First of all, _gross_ , Yuri did not need to hear Viktor admitting his love for Yuuri. And second of all...holy shit, Viktor must be _really_ delirious. Extremely delirious, even. Yuri begins to wonder… just how high is his fever, exactly?

“It’s from my grandpa,” Yuri explains simply, carefully extending the bowl toward Viktor, despite the fact that Viktor looks too weak to take it by himself.

Instead, Yuuri places a hand at Viktor’s back, using it to lift Viktor into a sitting position, presumably so that he can drink it. But the movement seems to irritate his lungs, and soon enough, his body is racked by powerful coughs. Yuri nearly winces at the sound. Makkachin actually whines, the sound slow and high-pitched.

But Yuuri reacts calmly, almost like this is a practiced routine by now. He quickly reaches for a bottle on the dresser -- cough syrup, it seems like -- and squeezes some onto a spoon. He then slips the utensil between Viktor’s lips, and Viktor swallows heavily -- like it’s painful to do so. But slowly...surely...the coughs diminish in volume and quantity, much to what appears to be immense relief for Yuuri.

Yuri stands there staring, silent, all the while. The soup bowl is still in his possession.

“He can take it now,” Yuuri murmurs, outstretching his hand and removing the dish from Yuri’s grasp. “Thank you very much, Yuri. This means a lot.”

“He’s getting better, right?” Yuri demands. “He _better be_ getting better.”

“I took him to the doctor yesterday. Until then, he was being really stubborn -- too afraid to go because he thought they’d tell him he couldn’t skate anymore, or something. That this was a sign of old age,” Yuuri explains, beginning to spoon ( _ugh, gross!)_ the soup into Viktor’s mouth.

“That’s so _stupid_ ,” Yuri remarks unapologetically.

“Very stupid indeed,” Yuuri agrees with a nod, and Viktor makes an indignant sound. “I finally made him go, though. He’ll be fine. They prescribed him an antibiotic, and it’ll kick in soon enough. Don’t worry. In fact, he’s already better than he was.”

Yuri scoffs, perhaps too exaggeratedly. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t _worried_ , pork cutlet bowl. Of course, he’ll be fine. Clearly the universe wants to torture me with you two _forever_.”

Yuuri smirks. “I hope so.”

Meanwhile, Viktor makes a loud sound of approval and exclaims around the spoon, “Yura, this soup is so, so good! Yuuri, did you try it? It’s so good! The best soup in human history!”

The smile only grows. “I’ll take your word for it, Vitenka.”

At another utterance of the pet name, Yuri decides that’s all that he can take. He soundlessly exits their apartment, fiercely hoping that he never, _ever_ gets sick enough to have to be cared for in such a way.

 

* * *

 

Several days later, Viktor is fine and well again, back to his healthy, _annoying_ self at the rink -- heart-shaped smile and all. Nonetheless, Yakov gave him a thorough verbal beating for being stupid enough to _refuse_ a trip to the doctor when he was so ill (it was Yuri who ratted him out, knowing that Yuuri would probably be too nice to do so).

To properly punish him, Yakov also arranges _extra_ warm-ups for Viktor, claiming that his _star pupil_ has a lot of catching up to do in terms of skating, given his time stuck in bed. The remaining skaters rest on the bleachers and watch Viktor resentfully carry out the exercises as he mutters to himself about how _he’s an adult,_ and that it’s _his decision whether he goes to the doctor or not._

A few minutes into the calisthenics, Yuri sees Yakov plop down beside Yuuri. Even as he averts his eyes, trying not to care or act intrusively, Yuri finds himself subconsciously eavesdropping on their conversation, all of which is exchanged in carefully crafted English.

“Katsuki…”

“Yes, coach Yakov?”

“I, err… I just wanted to thank you for getting through his thick head. Vitya has nearly worked himself to death in the past. I know that he never listens to anyone when it comes to his health -- or anything, for that matter. But you… you got through to him.”

Yuuri scoffs slightly, trying to be modest. “Maybe. But only after _days_ of arguing. If I were _really_ that good, I would’ve convinced him to go as soon as the cough showed up.”  

“Maybe. But you’re still more effective than I ever was. You’re good. A good skater. Good for Vitya.”

There is a beat of silence, and though Yuri is not staring at them directly, he can easily imagine Yuuri staring -- frozen -- at Yakov, utterly stunned by the other man’s declaration of approval.

_Fuck_ , even Yakov’s turning into a sap now. Yuri is not sure how much more of this he can take.

The bleachers shake slightly -- clanging metallically -- as Yakov stands and yells: “That’s enough, Vitya! Hopefully, you’ve learned your lesson, and the rest of us can _finally_ start practice.”

Viktor halts, hands on his knees, panting heavily. Sweat slips off his silver hair. “ _Yakov_...” he practically whines. “How am I supposed to coach Yuuri if I’m too tired to skate? This is very selfish of you.”

As the rest of the skaters take to the ice, Yuuri pauses while passing Viktor’s fatigued form, lightly patting Viktor’s cheek in a sarcastically affectionate gesture. “I think I’ll manage.”

Yuri almost chuckles.

“ _W-what_?” Viktor stammers.

But Yuuri skates away, leaving him speechless, and now, as Yuri passes Viktor as well, he shoots the older skater a gloating smirk and orders, “Next time go to the doctor, moron.” His departure also leaves Viktor annoyed and panting in his dust.

Later, after practice that day, Yuri hears his name called as he walks out the front door. He turns toward the voice, only to discover Yuuri and Viktor running toward him, hands locked and intertwined together, their duffle bags banging against their sides as they move. They skid to a stop as they finally reach him, like a couple from a cartoon, for Christ’s sake. Such a goddamn cliche.

“Are you talking to me or to the pig?” Yuri demands tonelessly, addressing Viktor, readjusting the strap of his own bag as he does so.

“No, no, I was talking to you, Yura!” Viktor announces happily, smiling _way_ too brightly for Yuri’s taste. (Honestly, Yuri should’ve been more thankful for Viktor’s sick days, that’s for sure).

“We were just wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight,” Yuuri then offers, with a smile far more subtle but still _irritating as hell_.

“Why?” Yuri deadpans, eyes narrowed.

“To thank you for the soup.”

Yuri scoffs, raises his eyebrows. “No -- why would I _want_ to come over to your place for dinner? Does that seem like something I would _ever_ want to do?”

Yuuri and Viktor glance at each other knowingly, seeming unfazed, like this behavior is all-too-expected from Yuri. _Fuck_ , he hates when people act like that.

“Well, Yuuri is making Katsudon! His mother sent the recipe. We figured you might want some,” Viktor explains jovially, heart-shaped smile consuming his features as he slings an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. Suddenly, Yuri finds himself aching for the days before that Sochi Grand Prix banquet, when all of Viktor’s smiles were as fake as a mirage in a desert.

But then Yuri’s stomach growls audibly, a low gurgle filling the pause in their conversation. He glances down at it, silently cursing it for its betrayal of his wants. Because really, Katsudon is delicious and he would love to eat some… but he also doesn’t want to give these two _idiots_ the satisfaction of knowing that.

“Ugh, fine,” Yuri relents. “But only because I like Katsudon. Definitely not because I want to spend time with you two, or anything.”

So he heads over to Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment for dinner. For a while, everything is fine and tolerable. The entire kitchen begins to smell like eggs and pork, much to Yuri’s delight, and he joins Viktor on the sofa for some television as Yuuri continues to cook. He’s grateful for the space between those two, mostly because their hands are far, far away from each other’s bodies, which is a gift to Yuri’s wary eyes.

“So…” Yuri asks carefully, trying to wrestle their insufferable poodle away from himself. “Which one of you does the cooking? Y’know, on a daily basis?”

“We switch off!” Viktor informs him brightly, eyes still glued to the television. “Yuuri _loves_ my cooking.”

“Doubt it,” Yuri huffs, achieving victory as Makkachin abandons his attempts to lick him, instead resting his head on Viktor’s lap, where he is showered in scratches behind his ears. “I wouldn’t trust anything of yours in my mouth, that’s for sure.”

Viktor smirks. “Yuuri definitely doesn’t feel the same way.”

Despite it being seemingly impossible, Yuri chokes on air.

Did he _just…_?

That...that _fucker_ . _Literally_.

Seething, Yuuri growls, “I’m going to kill you, Viktor.”

“What?” he inquires, feigning innocence.

“You know what you did.”

“ _What?”_

“Gave me a motive for murder, that’s what.”

“Hey!” Yuuri yells from the kitchen. “The Katsudon’s ready!”

Yuri does his best to forget that conversation entirely as he eats his meal, which he’ll admit, is actually pretty damn delicious -- just like the pork cutlet bowls back in Hasetsu. Despite his faults, it seems that Yuuri has _one_ positive trait, and it’s his ability to make this particular dish.

Of course, when clean-up proceeds after dinner, Yuri notices that Viktor and Yuuri are beginning to become more _touchy-feely_ . They are scrubbing dishes at the sink, playfully nudging each other from time to time, laughing heartily. A few minutes later… and that’s when the _whispering_ starts, mouths leaning close to each other’s ears.

The real clincher arrives soon after that, though. Because after Viktor dries his hand on a towel, that same hand drops downward so that it can _grab Yuuri’s ass._

And nope, nope, _no fucking way_ . That is _way_ more than Yuri will ever be able to handle. Quickly and frantically retrieving his duffle bag, Yuri mumbles a goodbye and heads toward the door. They’re both all too happy to see him leave.

Of course, when Yuri reaches the lobby of the apartment building, he realizes that he left his phone on the kitchen table upstairs. And Christ...He can’t just _leave_ it here. He’ll never make it back to Lilia and Yakov’s house without it, given how unfamiliar the route from this apartment is.

So, with a groan of absolute despair, Yuri ascends the stairs again, finding himself standing in front of Yuuri and Viktor’s apartment once more. He knocks once… twice… but no one answers. Just silence. Ultimately, he is forced to just try the door knob, hoping to just sneak in, retrieve the phone, and depart again.

It turns at his touch. Ever so reluctantly, he cracks the door open, desperately hoping that Viktor and Yuuri are in their bedroom rather than--

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit--_

Viktor is straddling Yuuri on the couch, dragging his tongue, teeth, and lips down Yuuri’s neck and chest, his hands clutching at Yuuri’s ass. Neither of them is wearing a shirt. Neither of them is wearing pants. Yuuri is literally _moaning_ Viktor’s name, eyes shut tight, head thrown back in pleasure--

And Yuri Plisetsky is entirely sure that he would’ve given anything -- _literally fucking anything --_ to be _anyone else_ at that given moment.

With his eyes covered by his hand, Yuri runs inside, snatches his phone, and darts right back outside, slamming the door behind himself. He feels like he just outran a monster in a horror movie.

Yuri can’t believe he _sat_ on that couch.

 

* * *

 

Yuri avoids talking to either of them for days after _that_ little encounter. In fact, he refuses to so much as _look_ at them, for fear of resurfacing the _disgusting_ memories from that night. Currently, he’s not sure if they have realized that he had entered at that particular, lewd moment, so perhaps, to them, Yuri just seems rude and ungrateful toward their hospitality. That’s fine with him. He has no problem with being perceived as rude, none at all. In fact, he prefers to be regarded in such a way. The more rude he seems, the better. The more that they’ll leave him alone.

No looking at Yuuri. No looking at Viktor. No speaking to either of them. And for the first time in weeks, Yuri’s life achieves some semblance of peace.

But then, of course, Viktor does what Viktor does best -- ruin Yuri’s peace, that is.

It’s a practice like any other that day. Their lunch break began a few minutes ago, so the skaters stand outside the circumference of the rink, unlacing their shoes and downing some much-needed water to quench the dryness in their throats. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuri sees Viktor speaking to Yuuri, pointing to the locker room and pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s cheek as he departs for it, probably intending to use the bathroom.

Honestly, what the _fuck_ about urination makes people want to kiss? _You’d think the opposite would be true_ , Yuri internally remarks, angrily gnawing on the spout of his water bottle.

Earlier that day, Mila had offered to pick up a sandwich for his lunch, and luckily, she pulled through (God knows he’s never showing his face in _that_ bakery again). Together, they sit on the first bleacher, chewing their way through their meals. He tries his best to focus on the food, rather than Katsuki still standing on the edge of the rink, probably waiting for Viktor so that they can both head to lunch.

Mila pushes her fiery red hair behind her ears. “Those two are absolutely adorable,” she comments, speaking around a mouthful of food. “I can’t wait until they get married.”

“Viktor says no marriage until the pig wins a gold medal,” Yuri snarls, in disbelief that they’re actually _discussing_ something like this. “And that’ll never happen -- not so long as I can help it. _I’m_ the one who’ll be winning all the gold medals.”

Mila hums, seeming unconvinced. In response, Yuri curses, calls her _baba_ \-- and then proceeds to finish his lunch in silence, how he prefers.

But, of course, that silence is interrupted by the sound of someone brightly yelling, “Yuuuuuri!” the two syllables dragged out like a long caress, slow and affectionate, and _fuck_ , Yuri nearly chokes -- _again_.

Viktor is bounding out of the locker room, his arms positively filled with an _enormous_ bouquet of red roses, some petals shaking loose and falling delicately to the floor as he runs. The older skater’s mouth is spread into a wide, euphoric, heart-shaped smile, blue-eyes visibly glimmering, even from where Yuri sits.

“Vitenka, what are you…?” Yuuri questions, seeming confused as Viktor continues to approach.

Yuri isn’t just confused. He’s annoyed. He’s _gah, can’t he have one second of--?_

Viktor doesn’t stop -- not until he practically _collides_ with Yuuri, sweeping the other man into a passionate kiss, tipping him backward like an old-fashioned gentleman in one of those paintings -- the kind that Yuri _hates_ , has _always_ hated, ever since he was forced to stare at them in school.

At first, “ _Mmph,”_ is the only sound Yuuri can articulate as he slips happily into Viktor’s embrace, not only indulging the kiss but also deepening it, eyes shut tight with pleasure. Eventually, though, he reopens his eyes and mumbles against Viktor’s mouth, “Vitenka, what is this about?”

With that, Viktor slides them both to their feet, the flowers fully transferred to a very dishevelled-looking Yuuri’s arms. “Happy anniversary!” he beams, pressing another kiss to Yuuri’s very confused, parted lips, startling his narrowing eyes.

Mila gasps the words, “ _How cute!_ ” amused at their blatant affection. Georgi bursts into over-emotional tears. Yakov grumbles something about Viktor’s dramatic antics, but doesn’t appear irritated at all. And Yuri… Yuri just bristles, crushing his sandwich between his fingers.

“But Viktor…” Yuuri muses, “Our anniversary isn’t until a few months from now. It was the Cup of China--

“No, no!” Viktor disagrees, placing a hand at the base of Yuuri’s spine and guiding him to the door, presumably so that they can depart for lunch. “This is the anniversary of me becoming your coach, which I consider the start of our relationship! Don’t you remember?”

Yuuri chuckles lightly. “Of course I remember. You were naked in the onsen, waiting for me.”

And there Yuri goes again, _choking_ . (But not choking _enough_ , in his own opinion, considering how desperately he _doesn’t_ want to view them acting like this).

“That is definitely something worth celebrating!” Viktor grins, still gently escorting Yuuri toward the exit. “Come on! I have a reservation--”

“Okay, but what about the Cup of China? Is that our anniversary too?”

“We can have many anniversaries!” Viktor announces, nuzzling against Yuuri’s neck. “As many as you want.”

_Please don’t_ , Yuri thinks weakly, certain that he would be unable to handle another display of affection so strong, let alone this one.

 

* * *

 

Viktor is an idiot. He left his wallet at the rink, right _there_ , on the bleachers, where anyone could steal it. Practice is long over when Yuri notices it, sitting neatly in its place -- a place that is _clearly_ not Viktor’s back pocket, since the older skater departed for his apartment nearly thirty minutes ago. It now acts as a clear declaration of Viktor’s stupidity, and Yuri grumbles as he stares at it, wondering how he should handle the situation.  

It is now many weeks since the little “anniversary” fiasco, and Yuri has effectively avoided the two men in the meantime to keep his life unpolluted by their affection. Thus, it feels like a crushing defeat, having to visit their apartment now, Viktor’s wallet in hand. But he can’t wait until tomorrow to return it -- who knows what Viktor might need it for in the morning. Yuuri’s situation still isn’t fully worked out, given that he’s a foreigner, so the contents of his wallet are mostly useless in Russia at the moment. Oh yes, Yuri hates this very much… but Yuri is also _obligated_ to do this.

He raises his fist, prepared to knock on their door (he shakes off a repulsed shudder as a result, remembering the last time he carried out a similar action). But before his knuckles make contact, he hears something from inside -- something loud. Something he hasn’t ever heard from them before (and he has heard a _revolting_ variety of sounds from them).

They’re yelling. Viktor and Yuuri are _arguing_.

Yuri’s hand freezes in place, hesitating above the surface of the door, like he’s about to strike a gong.

“Why can’t you just be upfront with me for once?” Viktor complains loudly from inside, almost whining.

“I _am_ being upfront with you!”

“No! No, you’re not! You never are! You always bury your feelings and _sulk_ and honestly, if you don’t like living here, just tell me--”

The sound Yuuri makes is agonized and irritated. “I’m _fine_ living here. Please, Viktor, this is so childish… calm down!”

“You’re lying to me again!” Viktor denies, hurt permeating his voice. “Just tell me, Yuuri. I heard you on the phone with Mari, I know what you said--”

“Then you misheard me! Seriously, Viktor, please, _enough--”_

“No! What is it? What am I doing wrong? I’m doing my best. God, I _swear_ , I’m doing my best by you, Yuuri, I’m doing all that I can, but you’re still pushing me away--”

“Dammit, Viktor, listen to me! I’m honestly not acting any different than I ever have. I’m _fine_ here. This is _stupid_ \--”

“Oh yes, I’m so stupid. Stupid me, stupid Viktor for trying to make sense of your moodiness, trying so hard to make you happy, but _never_ succeeding. You said that you were okay with this, with moving to Saint Petersburg, but I guess I’m _stupid_ for believing that. I’m so tired of it--”

Yuuri’s voice is thick when he speaks. “I’m happy with you when you’re not acting like _this!_ ”

Yuri feels like he _should be_ enjoying this. Enjoying the fact that they’re not affectionate, for once. He should feel accomplished. Feel blissful. But for some reason… they both sound too _pained_ for Yuri to experience any semblance of satisfaction. This… this _isn’t_ what he wants either.

Dammit.

There’s grumbling from inside, followed by the sound of shuffling, and Viktor’s voice snarling, “I’m going for a walk.”

Before Yuri can react, the door is swinging open, and he is greeted by Viktor’s face. He is clearly stunned to see Yuri waiting there, hand hovering over where the door was once shut, which is now the location of Viktor’s neck.

“Yura?” he questions, blinking and shocked, a coat roughly pulled around his shoulders. “What are you… were you standing out here the whole time?”

Yuri pulls his hand down to his side, feeling vaguely embarrassed and intrusive. But this is a different sort of intrusion than he has experienced in the past, when he walked in on them being very much _in love_ and doing things that he’d rather not remember. This… this is just upsetting. Upsetting and private and _not what he wants_.

Yuri glances past Viktor, into the apartment. Yuuri is standing beside the kitchen table, his arms crossed tightly around his own middle. With Viktor’s back turned to him, tears begin to stream down Yuuri’s cheeks. He refuses to meet Yuri’s wide eyes in the doorway.

_That… that bastard made the pig cry._

Yuri is even more stunned to realize that he cares so much.

Shooting a glare at Viktor, Yuri tips his head, gesturing for them both to leave. “C’mon, Viktor,” he urges. “Let’s go on that walk, yeah?”

Viktor sets his jaw and steps outside, closing the door behind himself. He proceeds forward, and Yuri follows him down the hall, down the stairs, down the street, even. They are both disconcertingly silent in their stroll, the atmosphere palpably strained between them, like a thoroughly stretched rubber band nearing its breaking point, ever so close to snapping--

Finally, Yuri speaks up, unable to bear any more of Viktor’s brooding.

“So,” he begins, eyebrows raised in a near-challenge. “What the fuck is going on between you and the pig?”

Viktor remains quiet, refusing to answer.

“For fuck’s sake, stop acting like a baby and tell me.”

“I’m not acting like a baby!” Viktor blurts angrily.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Yuri remarks. And that seems to expand the pressure against Viktor’s walls, allowing them to _burst._

“Stop! You weren’t there! You didn’t hear him. He was on the phone with Mari for hours, complaining about how much he missed Hasetsu -- not that he ever told _me_ that. He’s clearly unhappy. He doesn’t want to be here, with me, and he’s lying right to my face…”

Viktor trails off with a frustrated groan, quickening his pace, as if trying to stalk away from Yuri. He flips his silver hair with a huff of misted breath -- the signature mannerism that denotes his annoyance.

But Yuri pursues him anyway, struggling a bit to keep up with Viktor’s long legs. “You’re being a goddamn hypocrite. You know that, right?”

“No. I’m not,” Viktor grits out.

“Yes. You are,” Yuri returns mockingly, spacing out the words just as deliberately.

“And what, exactly, would you -- a sixteen-year-old -- know about it?” Viktor challenges, stalling in the middle of the sidewalk to face Yuri down. They have been in a similar position before, at the pier in Barcelona. Last time, when Yuri was protesting Viktor’s engagement to Yuuri… this time, when Yuri is _defending_ it. Protecting it from themselves.

It’s like Yuri has lost his mind. But nonetheless...he doesn’t alter his course of action.

“Since when have you ever been totally upfront with your feelings toward Yuuri?” Yuri demands.

“Always!”

“Psh, yeah right. You’ve been pining after the guy since the banquet, and didn’t tell him till _months_ afterward. You’re just as bad as he is.”

“Not true!” Viktor objects, shaking his head fiercely, no sign of that heart-shaped smile on his face. “It’s not the same. He wasn’t comfortable with my feelings yet, so I took it slow, letting him get used to me, working out how we felt--”

“And you think Yuuri’s not working out how you both feel right now? He’s just moved to a foreign country where he knows almost _no one_ , clearly he’s going to be a little homesick, and obviously he wouldn’t want to trouble you with that, not when you’re working so hard to make him feel welcome--”

“Excuse me, but when I arrived in Hasetsu, I knew even _fewer_ people than he does here in Russia. And when I was there, I didn’t call Yakov all the time, reminiscing about all the things I missed--”

“Yeah,” Yuri snaps, jabbing a finger into Viktor’s chest. “That’s because the only family you give a damn about is Yakov and your dog, one of which you took with you!”

That stuns Viktor into silence -- a long, cold one. But Yuri doesn’t relent. He keeps going, keeps backing Viktor into a corner.

“Besides your skating career, which you later reclaimed anyway, you barely left anything behind,” he points out. “You barely had a home to leave. But Yuuri has a whole _family_ of people back in Hasetsu. Nice people, even I’ll admit. So you better bet your _ass_ that I’d be a little homesick too. Fuck, sometimes _I_ miss that place almost as much as he probably does--”

“I--” Viktor stammers, realization dawning on his features.

“Honestly, how could you be so fucking stupid? You finally found a family beyond a _poodle_ and a skating coach, someone who loves you a _disgusting amount_ , and you’re already determined to lose them. Wake the fuck up! This is _pork cutlet bowl_ we’re talking about. He’s emotional. Deal with it. And stop making him cry with your stupidity, for fuck’s sake.”

Silence again, interrupted by the sound of the whistling wind. But this time, it is far less strained, the pressure on the rubber band released. Viktor’s eyes are wide with regret and fear.

“Oh god. You’re right,” he exhales, covering his mouth with his hand. “What… what should I _do_ , Yurio? He’s going to _hate me_ now.”

“Just go back and apologize and kiss him or something. I don’t know -- that type of stuff is your specialty. But he definitely _won’t_ hate you -- you two are far too grossly smitten with each other. It’s unbearable.”

Viktor nods quickly, his expression brightening with understanding and hope. And then, before Yuri can stop him, he is pulling Yuri into a tight embrace -- a grateful one, but not one that _Yuri_ is grateful for. Certainly not. He hates this mushy stuff.

“Thank you, Yura.”

“Get off me!” Yuri protests, wriggling out of his grip and smacking his arms away. The last thing he needs is Viktor’s germs smeared all over his leopard print jacket, that’s for sure. “Go back to your boyfriend and smother him with affection, not me. And here--”

He retrieves Viktor’s wallet and presses the smooth leather into the other man’s gloved hand. “You forgot this at the rink. Stop being so fucking careless, you old geezer.”

Smiling, Viktor thanks him again before departing, running back to his apartment.

Now alone on the sidewalk, Yuri suppresses a satisfied smile. _Those two idiots. Honestly._

 

* * *

 

The next day, when Yuri walks into practice, Yuuri and Viktor are back to normal, conversing happily. 

As he makes his way to the locker room, he grumbles but doesn’t curse, only utters the word “ _gross”_ once or twice. This is just something to which he’ll have to grow accustomed, he supposes with resignation. After all...he’d rather those two acting _affectionate_ than _whining_ and _yelling_ and _heartbroken_. Yuri may hate mushy stuff, but he hates sad stuff even more.

As he slips into the locker room, he hears them laughing. Yuri rolls his eyes. They can be in love all they want, really, but do they have to be so _noisy_ about it?

**Author's Note:**

> Rip Yurio's muffin...  
> I'm also logically assuming that Yurio has turned 16 by that scene toward the end.  
> This is a lot longer than most 5+1 fics, but hey, I tend to ramble.  
> And okay, Yurio might seem angry and spiteful, but he cares A LOT about Viktor and Yuuri deep down and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.  
> Also... an important note. This work was made with Kubo's tweet in mind, which said that homophobia and discrimination do not exist in the world of yoi. So yes, Viktor and Yuuri can be very public with their kisses, even in Russia.   
> Someone asked last time what Vitenka meant. From what I've read, it's a diminutive of Viktor in the Russian language -- a very intimate one, at that. Just like Vitya, except (though I could be wrong) it's even stronger in terms of affection. That's why Yurio's grandpa calls him Yuratcka, or something of the like. :)  
> Please leave comments! I love them!  
> [my tumblr ](https://clark-jkent.tumblr.com/)


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